


An Analysis of the Implicit Rules of Expletive Infixation (Or, Where the Fuck do You Put the Fucking Fuck?)

by salifiable



Category: Hark! A Vagrant
Genre: Bad Puns, Explicit Language, Gen, humorous references to suicide
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-12-14
Updated: 2013-12-14
Packaged: 2018-01-04 15:15:30
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,943
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1082546
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/salifiable/pseuds/salifiable
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In which Vanessa and the Mystery Solving Teens Uncover a Dastardly Plot, Participate in Civic Life, Stake Out a Villain's Headquarters, Lie to a Small Child, and Ramble through Nature Au Naturel.</p><p>Or, How Vanessa Dragged the Mystery Solving Teens Toward Graduation while Committing Aggravated Assault on the Rules of English Grammar.</p>
            </blockquote>





	An Analysis of the Implicit Rules of Expletive Infixation (Or, Where the Fuck do You Put the Fucking Fuck?)

**Author's Note:**

  * For [corbae](https://archiveofourown.org/users/corbae/gifts).



> ... I really think that the only thing to say here is that I fully realize that what I've written is completely, irredeemably ridiculous. I can only hope that it is at least, in some measure, amusing as well.
> 
> As background, the request from [corbae](http://archiveofourown.org/users/corbae) was for a story based on Vanessa and the Mystery Solving Teens from 'Hark! A Vagrant.' They appear in 6 strips in the series, linked here:
> 
> [199: Teen Comics](http://harkavagrant.com/index.php?id=199)  
> [218: Teens Again](http://harkavagrant.com/index.php?id=218)  
> [223: Mystery Solving Teens](http://harkavagrant.com/index.php?id=223)  
> [241: Teens #4](http://harkavagrant.com/index.php?id=241)  
> [289: Teens 5](http://harkavagrant.com/index.php?id=289)  
> [313: Teens and more teens](http://harkavagrant.com/index.php?id=313)
> 
> As a warning, Vanessa and the Mystery Solving Teens do use crude, offensive language, and there is a scene where references to suicide are played for laughs.

It came as a surprise to absolutely nobody that Eric Fowler and Frank Ulrich missed the deadline to turn in a proposal for their senior projects. It hardly warranted a raised eyebrow when Mrs. Reeves found that not only had they missed the deadline, but that they hadn’t the faintest idea that such an assignment existed.

“The fuck do you mean, we have to do a final project to graduate?” Eric demanded.

“Yeah, we didn’t hear a fucking thing about this - that’s fucking illegal, you can’t just spring this sort of shit on us.” Frank said.

“Oh damn, you caught us,” Mrs. Reeves said. “We’ve been working really hard to keep the statewide requirement for all high school seniors to complete a senior project before graduation top secret. The school district definitely didn’t send out letters to every student and their families about it three months ago, at the beginning of summer vacation. I certainly didn’t talk about it every week since the beginning of the school year to remind you guys to get started. And of course I never emailed all of my classes a handout describing the requirements for the project and each of the deadlines you have to meet.” Mrs. Reeves paused. “Oh wait, it’s not opposite day? What?”

Frank scowled. “I don’t think teachers are allowed to be this sarcastic, it’s not appropriate.”

Mrs. Reeves gave a very undignified snort. “I apologize, Frank, the other option would be liquor but I’m afraid I ran out of whiskey during third period.”

The door banged open, and in stormed Vanessa Parkhurst.

“Why didn’t I get funding for my senior project?” Vanessa demanded. “You decide to give Mike Ambruster money so he can fucking build a bicycle out of PVC pipe, but supporting watchdog journalism on local environmental issues is too much to fucking ask?”

“And good afternoon to you too, Vanessa,” Mrs. Reeves said, starting to massage her temples. “How kind of you to join us, why don’t you have a seat?”

“Do you even know what the tensile strength of PVC pipe is? Ambruster had better lose a shit-ton of weight before he tries riding that thing, otherwise it’ll snap like a twig and skewer him right through the balls. He’ll bleed out or end up castrated, one or the other or both,” Vanessa snapped.

Frank started sniggering. “Dunno how you’d be able to tell, he’s already got a voice like a little girl.”

“Yeah, Vanessa, what are you even talking about,” Eric said. “He doesn’t have any balls to begin with, it’ll skewer him straight through his assho—”

“On second thought, I don’t think there’s enough whiskey in the world,” Mrs. Reeves said sadly to her desk, her head down.

“Man, your grasp of anatomy is effed up. It wouldn’t go through his asshole first, it would have to pass through his vagina before getting there.”

“Are you implying it’s a bad thing to have a vagina?” Vanessa said, her tone dangerously sweet. “It’s actually much more comfortable than having a dick, I can help fix things down there for you if you’d like to try it.”

Eric hooted with laughter. “Oh man, that is totally not the way you were hoping Vanessa was gonna try to get in your pants—”

“Shut _up_ —” Frank lunged.

“That is ENOUGH.” Mrs. Reeves stood up and slammed her hands on the desk. “Vanessa, I decided not to fund your senior project because first of all, you are clearly an extremely capable muckraker even without financial support, and secondly I cannot in good conscience use school funds to support a newspaper that goes by the name of _The Shit Talker_ , however apropos that title may be considering the level of discourse at this institution.” She turned to the two boys.

“As for you two, completing a senior project is a requirement for graduation. And as hard as I find it to believe, both of you are otherwise on track for graduation this year, so do _not_ let this one assignment stand in the way of you getting out of here. Hell, I won’t even make you guys turn in a full written proposal— just give me a two-minute sales pitch on what you guys want to do. You can write a paper, build something, make a video, whatever.” There was a prolonged silence.

“Could I do a linguistic analysis on the word fuck?” Eric said hopefully. “Specifically looking at the implicit rules of expletive infixation. Like, why is it okay to say, ‘It is abso-fucking-lutely retarded that we have to do this senior project,’ but it’s not okay to say ‘It is absolute-fucking-ly retarded that we have to do this senior project.’”

“I’m not sure where you got the idea that it’s okay to say either of those sentences, but we’ll let it go,” Mrs. Reeves said, a hand over her face. “Frank?”

“I guess I’d wanna do a project on better ways to handle shit,” he said.

“Frank Ulri — ”

“No, seriously, we can call it ‘exploring alternatives ways of processing human waste,’ or whatever, if that sounds more professional,” he said. “Instead of flushing away gallons of water just to take care of our shit, I think we should build latrines with composting and all that crap. We can build them out by the gym for all the jocks, they’re all shitheads anyways.” Mrs. Reeves made a small, pained sound. “And then, you know, to raise awareness about it, we can put up these posters around school with all these slogans like, ‘Give a shit, it’s good for the environment!’ or, ‘Bears shit in the woods, and you should too.’ And once we get the compost thing going, the poster for that could be, ‘Eat shit! Use human manure to grow your own foo—”

“Vanessa, let’s cut a deal,” Mrs. Reeves said. “If you agree to have Eric and Frank work with you on your project as a group effort, I’ll give you your funding.”

Vanessa snorted. “For a lousy hundred bucks? Please, you’d have to shell out a fistful of benjamins to get me to work with these morons.”

Mrs. Reeves narrowed her eyes. “One twenty-five.”

Vanessa crossed her arms. “Two hundred.”

“One fifty, and I’ll also talk Mr. Walton into getting your final exposé published in the school newspaper. That’s my final offer, take it or leave it.”

Vanessa sniffed. “Don’t even pretend, you’ve got zero leverage here— you’re way more interested in getting these clowns graduated and out of here than I am in quote-unquote ‘working’ with them, and you and I both know it.”

Mrs. Reeves threw up her hands. “Yes! Fine! I admit it! You really have caught me this time! Now do we have a deal or what?” Another long silence.

And then with a roll of her eyes, Vanessa reached over and shook on it.

“All right, assholes. We’ve got a city council meeting to go to,” she said, pivoting.

“What?” Frank said. “You’ve gotta be kidding.”

* * *

Later, from the back of the Hellerton city council chambers:

“You’ve gotta be _fucking kidding,_ ” Frank said desperately.

“See, that’s another one. You have to say ‘fucking kidding.’ You can’t say, ‘you’ve gotta be kid-fuck-ing,’ it just doesn’t sound right.” Eric said.

“I’ll kid-fuck you right up the ass if you don’t shut up,” Vanessa said. “That sounds perfectly all right to me.”

The mayor banged his gavel. “All right, this session is now in order. For our first order of business, I’d like to welcome Mr. Bradley Rodriguez, one of our Zoning Enforcement Administrators, to discuss several items.”

Mr. Rodriguez cleared his throat, already at the podium in front of the council’s dais. “Thank you for that introduction, Mayor Wilson. The first item is an appeal for a variance from City Code 10-2083.2 by the Wendy’s at 1427 Western Boulevard, to allow a roof sign to remain in zoning district E5. We also have Mr. Durham here, an attorney representing Wendy’s in this matter.”

A weedy-looking man in a pinstripe suit popped up, a jack-in-the-box sprung from its cage.

“Now, the Wendy’s in question did obtain appropriate permits for the sign, as seen here,” Mr. Rodriguez gestured at the Powerpoint projecting on the screen. “However, the permit reviewer did not initially realize the sign does not comply with Code Section 10-2083.2 which states:

> ‘No portion of a wall sign may extend above the roof lines of buildings without a parapet wall. No portion of a wall sign may extend 2 feet above the roof line of a building with a parapet wall.’

Now, as you can see from the photograph, this sign is in obvious violation as there is, in fact, no parapet wall surrounding the building, and the sign extends significantly higher than the roof line —”

“Oh my fucking god,” Eric said. “Seriously, kill me now.” He tied an invisible noose in front of him, stuck his head in, then dropped and sagged.

“Oh, come on, really?” Frank said. “That’s so uncreative, bro. Gotta go for the classics.” He picked up an imaginary cup, took a few gulps, then got up and walked around. After a few steps, his legs began to drag. He staggered over and sat down, taking off his shoes and socks so he could pinch his feet. He looked puzzled, then pulled his jeans up and pinched his calves. Still nothing. Then he lay back on the bench, his body gradually becoming rigid, and then his eyes became fixed and unblinking.

“Dude, what the fuck?” Eric said. “Did you just chug zombie-making juice or what?”

Mr. Patterson and Mr. Durham turned in sync and glared at the back of the room, their expressions mirrored by Mayor Wilson.

“As I was saying, my client has just recently finished renovating his property in accordance with corporate directives, including installation of glass walls as well as an indoor gas fireplace. The sign is located on top of the wall containing the fireplace, and relocating the sign would require removing the fireplace, causing undue hardship—”

“No, no, what are they even teaching you kids in school these days,” Councilman Langsdorf said. “Listen to what the boy said, the classics. That’s the death of Socrates, suicide by hemlock poisoning.”

Eric wrinkled his nose. “Seriously, you actually _did_ the assigned reading?”

“Shut up, I had the fucking flu and there was nothing on fucking TV,” Frank said.

Mayor Wilson cleared his throat. “If we could please have some quiet in the room — ”

“How about this one,” Eric said. He stood up, grinned and gestured at an invisible wall, knocked on it a couple times, then threw himself at it and immediately bounced off. He got up, brushed himself off, then took a running start and promptly sailed through the invisible window, plummeting to the floor in a crumpled heap.

“Uh…” Frank scratched his head. “A high jump athlete really determined to commit suicide?”

Mayor Wilson scowled and banged his gavel twice. “Officer, if you could please remove these two from—”

“Oh, oh, I heard about this one,” the security officer said, waving his hand. “That’s the guy who tried to prove the glass in his office building was unbreakable, so he threw himself against it a couple times, and then the window popped, and then he died.” He beamed. “Man, I just about pissed myself laughing when I read about it.”

Mayor Wilson’s expression was thunderous. “Officer Landry, you—”

“Didn’t they do a Mythbusters episode about him?” said Councilman O’Neal.

“Yeah, it was the same one where they debunked the myth that you can get stuck on a airplane toilet,” said Councilman Langsdorf.

“What?” said Councilman O’Neal. “How?”

“You know, if your rear end is large enough to cover the hole, and if there’s enough suction…” Councilman Langsdorf gestured illustratively.

“As I was saying,” Mr. Durham said loudly, “Relocating the sign would cause undue hardship, totaling— oh, for god’s sake,” he said as Frank got up, stomped around with an arm held behind his back, bleating loudly.

Mr. Durham, Mr. Patterson and Mayor Wilson discussed the fact that the key issue was that the City had issued the permit in error and whether it would affect future cases before the Board of Adjustment and whether the City would be subject to estoppal action. Mr. Durham asserted that the violation was committed in good faith and that the spirit of the ordinance would not be compromised if the variance was granted, and that the City would not be subject to estoppal action.

After several guesses from the audience, Councilwoman Isaacs correctly guessed that Frank was portraying the case of an Australian woman who had been crushed to death by her pet camel, whose amorous advances were not received in quite the manner he’d hoped. Eric objected on the grounds that they were supposed to be acting out self-inflicted deaths, whereupon Frank said that owning a horny pet camel was evidence of suicidal ideation on some level, at least. Eric said that had to be the most inefficient way of committing suicide ever.

Mr. Patterson, Mr. Durham and Mayor Wilson discussed whether there was established case law regarding whether a mutual error constituted a self-created hardship and also whether the City should pay for part of the cost for correcting the violation. There ensued further discussion of how Wendy’s had engaged an outside contractor to install the sign, and it was established that Mr. Durham did not, in fact, know whether the contract provided for violation corrections.

The audience was initially stumped by Eric’s portrayal of a young man who dove into a thermal spring to save his over-adventurous dog, but once Councilman Langsdorf came up with the right answer, he observed that the young man was indeed suicidally stupid and that the gene pool would be better off without him, an observation to which Councilwoman Isaacs and Councilman O’Neal strenuously objected. The conversation rapidly devolved to loud accusations and counter-accusations of Hitlerism and Fascism, thereby proving that, in fact, Godwin’s law applied not only to internet comments but had more universal generalizability than previously thought.

Mayor Wilson stated that although he appreciated Mr. Durham bringing this matter to the council’s attention, he had been under the impression that City Council did not have the authority to issue permits in violation of its own code, and that the Board of Adjustment was in fact the proper avenue of recourse. After consultation of the appropriate documentation, Mr. Durham and Mr. Patterson agreed that Mayor Wilson’s interpretation was correct, and that the matter should therefore be reviewed at the next Board of Adjustment meeting.

However, Mayor Wilson noted that even if the sign did have to be removed, he would be in favor of the the fireplace remaining as he believed it was a tasteful feature of the design. Given that Councilpersons Isaacs, O’Neal and Langsdorf were continuing their strenuous disagreement, he was required to make this point at volume. “I BELIEVE IT CONTRIBUTES TO A ROMANTIC AMBIANCE, DON’T YOU AGREE?” Mayor Wilson bellowed. He turned to his fellow council members. “NOW WILL YOU ALL KINDLY SHUT UP!”

After a moment, Councilpersons Isaacs, O’Neal and Langsdorf subsided. Frank sat down, abandoning his impression of a drunken donkey eating figs.

“You’ve been quiet the entire time,” Eric said to Vanessa. “The fuck’s up with that? You’re the one who dragged us here in the first place.”

“There was such an incredible amount of stupidity concentrated in the room, I didn’t want to say anything sensible and dilute it,” Vanessa said. “Besides, they haven’t gotten to the part that I came here for yet.”

“Now that that’s settled,” Mayor Wilson said, nostrils flaring, “We’ll move on to our second order of business. I’d like to call Mr. Dungworth to the podium.”

A man with an extraordinarily fastidious appearance stood up; his hair was parted exactly down the middle, each strand shellacked into place. His suit jacket hung from his shoulders without a single wrinkle or crease, a perfect windsor knot at his neck. He looked like the type of person who took his mini steam iron on business trips so he could iron his underwear into submission.

“Mr. Dungworth is the CEO of Dungworth and Co. Paint Company, one of our leading local businesses,” Mayor Wilson said. “He’s here today because the company’s headquarters was recently awarded LEED Platinum rating, after undergoing environmental retrofitting; they’re the first industrial building in Hellerton to achieve a Platinum rating, which is a big accomplishment. I’d like to applaud Mr. Dungworth in particular for spearheading the company’s initiative, and helping to protect our community so it continues to be a clean and healthful place to live.”

Mr. Dungworth preened.

Eric gagged.

“Man, gagging is such a lame way to die,” Frank said. “Minus mundo points for creativity.”

“That was not pretending,” Eric said. “That was a fucking allergic reaction to self-righteousness, where the hell’s my Epi-pen— uh, Vanessa?”

Vanessa had already marched halfway up the aisle.

“And so on the behalf of the City of Hellerton, I’d like to present Mr. Dungworth with a Certificate of Commendation for—”

Vanessa plucked the certificate from the mayor’s hands, took the sheet of paper out of its frame and ripped it to shreds.

Everybody gaped.

“Mayor Wilson, Dungworth and Co. is perpetrating a fraud on this community, not protecting it,” Vanessa said. “Although I’m sure he’s happy to stand there and get a pretty piece of paper while everybody says pretty things about him and his company, the reality is that the Dungworth and Co. is secretly dumping toxic waste and then publicly claiming the credit for being environmentally friendly. I’m sure that the tax breaks which come along with LEED certification are pretty appealing too, and I’d bet that’s how they’re going to get back all the money they used to bribe the inspectors or whatever,” she said.

Mr. Dungworth drew himself up. “Well, I never!”

“That’s a very harsh accusation, young lady,” Mayor Wilson said. “Do you have any proof?”

A pause, then Vanessa scowled. “Well, nobody with an ounce of sense would trust a guy with a fucking last name like Dungworth to say that he’d cleaned his act,” she muttered.

Mr. Dungworth sniffed. “Wonderful, a shockingly baseless charge without any substance whatsoever,” he said. “And an accuser who can’t even manage to speak in grammatically correct English. You intended to denounce me for the tax breaks **that** come along with LEED certification, not the tax breaks _which_ come along with LEED certification, as you clearly meant to use a restrictive clause since the source of these tax breaks is plainly essential information to the meaning of the sentence.”

There was a moment of stunned silence.

“Holy fucking cow, you’re one of those freaks who stays up all night flipping out about ‘there,’ ‘their,’ and ‘they’re,’” Eric said in undisguised glee. “What’s the worse thing you ever did when you read a sentence with ‘your’ instead of ‘you’re’? Hunt the guy down and disembowel him? Through the nose? Or the anus?”

Mr. Dungworth shuddered delicately. “Certainly not, that would be extremely messy,” he said. “Strychnine is quite sufficient, thank you. As for you, young lady,” he sneered, “despite your vehemence in littering the premises with confetti, you have a long way to go before you’ll be able to find a single shred of evidence to back up your allegations.”

“I have a long way to go, Mr. Dungworth?” said Vanessa. “Oh, you have no idea how far I’ll go.”

* * *

“God-fucking-dammit, what you meant is that we’d go until your car fucking breaks down into a smoking pile of debris,” Frank said, clinging to his seat as Vanessa’s car slowly and resentfully climbed its way up the hill. “Seriously, did you buy this piece of junk with Mrs. Reeves’ money? You totally overpaid, this thing isn’t worth a goddamn penny.”

“Don’t be silly, I’m saving that money so I can get the brakes fixed,” Vanessa said just as they crested the peak.

“ _So you could get the brakes fixed—_ ” Eric yelped as the car began speeding downwards.

“Ha, you fell for it,” she said as she hit the brakes, swerved right, and came to screeching halt at the side of the road. “No, that’s all going to gas money, it takes a fucking quarter tank just to get out here.”

“Wait, where the hell are we?” Frank said, looking around. They were in some sort of industrial park, warehouses and factories on both sides. “Hold on, did you fucking drag us out to the Dungworth paint factory?”

“Of course,” Vanessa said, her binoculars already in hand. Frank and Eric hadn’t even had the chance to bicker over shotgun since there was already a person-sized pile of junk occupying the seat. It appeared to be in constant danger of disintegrating, sometimes shedding bits and pieces which Vanessa absentmindedly shoved back into place: a pair of garden shears, half a loaf of moldy bread, a coil of heavy rope, a length of aluminum chain, a scarf, a gasoline can. Dental floss. A dog collar.

“So what is this? A stakeout or some shit?”

“You got it,” Vanessa said. “I _know_ for a fact that they’re not getting rid of their waste the right way, which means that they must be dumping it somewhere. Since I don’t know where that is, the most logical thing to do is to stake out the source of the waste and see where it goes, try to catch them in the act.”

“Are you serious?” Eric said. “What the hell did you drag us out here for, you don’t need three people to stake out a fucking paint factory.”

“Don’t be an idiot, we’re going to take shifts, I didn’t fucking bring you two along for fucking company,” Vanessa said.

“You do realize that the point of a stakeout is to stay under the radar, right,” Frank said. “We stick out like a fucking sore thumb, what the hell’s our excuse for being here.”

Vanessa scowled. “Nobody’s going to fucking bother us, now shut up so we can actually _stay_ under the fucking radar.”

A sullen silence descended.

Frank fidgeted.

Eric started drumming his fingers on the door handle.

“Stop that,” Vanessa said.

“Yeah, or what?”

“Or else I’ll kick you out of the car, run over your sorry ass a couple times, then drag over the car crusher from the junkyard a couple blocks over and drop it on your body until it’s nothing but a smear of meat on the asphalt, and then after the sun’s dried it up the vultures can come by and eat all the corpse jerky they want, that’s what.”

The dog collar slipped further down the junk heap.

“You have a dog?” Frank said.

“What? No,” Vanessa said. “That was for when I was trying to use Mr. Gregoriou’s poodle as a sniffer dog, but he kept rolling over and wanting his belly rubbed.”

“I think Frankie-boy here wouldn’t mind if you’d put a collar on him and rubbed his belly—” Frank lunged at him.

“Eric, I swear I’m going to disembowel _you_ through the nose and shove a boatload of strychnine up your ass, you fucking asshole—”

The car rocked back and forth as the two of them grappled in the back seat, Vanessa yelling at them at the top of her lungs. The pile of junk slid even further down in its seat, embarrassed to be seen with these people.

There was a tap at the window.

The three of them froze, Frank with a fistful of Eric’s hair, Eric in the middle of giving Frank a wedgie.

Vanessa rolled her window down.

A truck driver peered in, his semi idling in the middle of the road. “Everything okay in here? Young lady, are these boys giving you any trouble?”

“What, these idiots?” Vanessa said. “Nah, I can handle them.”

“Yeah, I’d bet Frank would just love for you to handle him,” Eric said, then yelped as Frank gave a vicious tug.

The trucker looked doubtful. “And what is it that you’re all doing here? It’s after dark, and there’s nothing for you kids to do out here anyways.”

A short pause. “Well, this is actually the hot new makeout spot,” Vanessa said. “You know, because it’s out of the way. And because of the—the romantic ambiance. And all that.”

The trucker squinted, then straightened up to look up and down the street: blank-faced concrete walls surrounded by chain-link fences and barbed wire; harsh yellow street lights that bestowed everything it illuminated with a patina reminiscent of dried urine. He scratched his head.

He bent towards the driver’s window again, opened his mouth, then took another look around the car: the girl in the front seat with an expression fit to strip paint, the two boys in the back still all tangled up with each other. The blond kid had a bruised right eye that was going turn into an impressive shiner tomorrow, that was for sure. He squinted. “So… you drove these two fellas out to this here new makeout spot, is that right?”

At that moment, the dog collar gave up the fight and slid out of the junk heap completely, clattering on the floor.

Vanessa stared at it. The trucker stared at it.

The metal chain chose to follow suit and slithered out.

The trucker looked at Vanessa. Vanessa looked determinedly out the front windshield.

Then a pair of police-grade handcuffs decided it wanted some fresh air as well.

“Ah,” said the trucker. “Kids, I hate to tell you, but _that_ hot new makeout spot is actually on the other side of town,” he said. “I can see how you guys got mixed up, but this is Chester _Industrial_ Park, the club you’re looking for is Chester's Pony Park.” He coughed a little. "Leonard Chester likes to, uh, get in touch with his equine side when he gets between the sheets, if you know what I mean."

Silence.

“Oh,” Vanessa said faintly.

“Now, the fastest way to get there is to drive straight, then turn right onto South Vineland. You’re going to stay on Vineland for a couple miles, then turn left onto Maple Boulevard. Go for, oh, four or five blocks, and then you’ll turn right onto Pine. Another block, and the club’ll be on the right side of the street. There’s a sign of a pony hanging over the front door, you can’t miss it.” The trucker stepped back.

Vanessa hesitated.

He raised an eyebrow expectantly.

Vanessa made a disgruntled noise, but she put her keys in the ignition and started the car.

“Say hi to Lenny for me,” the trucker called after them as he waved goodbye.

* * *

“Well, _that_ was a resounding success,” said Frank as they drove away.

“Shut up,” said Vanessa.

“Okay, so why are you so convinced that Dungworth’s dumping toxic waste?” Eric asked. “What do you know?”

Vanessa scowled. “I just know, okay?”

Eric threw his hands up in the air. “Didn’t work at the City Council meeting, not working here! C’mon, did you really think just browbeating the guy in public would make him break down weeping and confess everything?”

“It’s worked for me before,” Vanessa said.

“…Okay, point,” said Eric. “Pete Dillingham still wets his pants every time we play dodgeball. But for this guy, if you really think the LEED certification was a fraud, you should go after the people from the environmental agency or whatever. It’s their ass on the line if it turns out this guy’s actually faking it.”

Vanessa blinked. “That’s the most intelligent thing I’ve ever heard you say, Eric Fowler,” she said. “Congratulations.” She took a hard right, the car squealing in protest.

“Holy shit, we’re all going to be corpse jerky at this rate,” Frank said. “Now where the fuck are we going?”

“Like he said,” Vanessa said. “Who watches the watchmen?” She stepped on the gas. “Us, that’s who.”

* * *

“Why, Vanessa, what a lovely surprise,” the woman who answered the door said. “It’s so nice to see you, it’s been far too long.”

“Excuse me,” Eric said. “Have you recently suffered brain injury?”

“And who are your friends? Please, introduce us,” the woman said, smiling. She was tall, her dark hair cut short, silver bangles on both her wrists.

Vanessa snorted. “Friends? Yeah, right. Eric, Frank, this is Dr. Pierson, she’s the head of the county’s Department of Environmental Health. I used to babysit for her daughter, Lydia, but they moved to the other side of town a couple years ago. Dr. Pierson, this is Eric Fowler and Frank Ulrich. They’re my classmates at school, our English teacher bribed me to drag them along for my senior project so she can make sure they graduate in June, she’s probably start singing Handel’s Messiah when they walk. Anyways, I’m here to ask you some questions about Dungworth and Co., I’m investigating them for chemical dumping.”

Dr. Pierson blinked. “I see,” she said. She stepped aside. “Well, won’t you come in? We’re about to have dinner, but you’re all welcome to join us.”

The three of them followed Dr. Pierson into her kitchen, where a woman wearing coke-bottle glasses was setting the table, the sleeves of her button-down plaid shirt rolled up; a curly-haired little girl was already seated, humming quietly to herself.

“Lyddie, look who decided to visit,” Dr. Pierson said.

The little girl looked, then her face lit up and she hopped out of her seat and ran over.

“Nessa! I haven’t seen you in _forever_ ,” Lydia said, wrapping her arms around Vanessa’s waist.

“Lydia, it’s good to see you too,” Vanessa said, briefly hoisting Lydia up for real hug. “How’s life in second grade? I can’t believe you’ve grown up so much, you’re a real lady now.”

“Lydia, say hello to our other guests, this is Eric and Frank,” Dr. Pierson said.

Lydia wrinkled her nose. “But boys have cooties,” she said.

“They do indeed, which is why we’re going to keep you as far away from them as possible,” Vanessa said, shepherding her back to her chair.

The woman in plaid came over and offered his hand to Eric and Frank, grinning. “Well, I'm immune to cooties anyways,” she said. “I’m Ruth Pierson, I’m Amy’s wife. Mrs. Pierson or Ruth is fine, whatever you like. Please, have a seat, make yourself at home.”

Once they were all seated and passing around the salad, Dr. Pierson said, “All right, Vanessa, why don’t you tell us about what you’ve been working on. Are you still doing reporting? Is that why you’ve been investigating Dungworth’s paint company?”

“Yeah, the reason I’m here is because Dungworth and Co. just got LEED certification for their factory, but I’m sure that they’re faking it somehow.”

Dr. Pierson raised her eyebrows. “Really? And why do you think that?”

Vanessa scowled, looking down.

“Yeah, Vanessa, why _do_ you think that,” Eric said. Vanessa glared at him.

“Fine,” she ground out. “I was in the changing room at the mall when I overheard this woman talking on the phone. She was talking to a friend about how she was going in a shopping spree because her husband had just gotten a lot of money for doing this guy a favor under the table. She said that he was basically cleaning up this guy’s mess, sweeping it under the rug.”

“How do you know she was talking about Dungworth? Did she name him or the company?” asked Dr. Pierson.

“She told her friend that she didn’t know who it was, but that her husband thought the guy had the most hilarious name in the world, and that he was so fussy about his appearance and staying clean that he would change his suit if he sneezed.”

Dr. Pierson paused. “Okay, that definitely sounds like Tony Dungworth,” she said. “And you’re sure that it sounded like this woman’s husband was being paid off for cleaning up after him?”

Vanessa nodded. “And so I was thinking that maybe they’re dumping toxic waste in Vinson Creek, it goes right by the factory.”

Dr. Pierson shook her head. “No, Vinson Creek drains directly into the lake, and Tony’s younger brother is an avid fisherman,” she said. “Ernie is Tony’s right hand man, if something like that was going on he’d definitely know. In fact, there’s no way he’d let the factory dump in any of the waterways, the whole area is one big drainage basin. He'd end up poisoning the drinking water for the entire county.”

“Wait,” said Mrs. Pierson. “How do you know Ernie Dungworth fishes?”

“I got trapped into talking to him at the department’s holiday party last year,” she said. “He told me at length about all the fish he’d caught, and how large they were, and made several extremely unsubtle references to how big a certain other thing was. And then he offered to take me aboard his boat and, um, show me his etchings,” Dr. Pierson said, glancing at Lydia — who unfortunately caught the look.

“What’re etchings?” Lydia said.

“They’re drawings, like the ones you make with your Etch-a-Sketch,” Mrs. Pierson said.

“Did you go see his drawings, Mom?” she asked.

“No, I didn’t,” Dr. Pierson said.

“Why not?”

“Because I could tell he had cooties,” she said placidly. “But in any case, Vanessa, I agree that that conversation is pretty suspicious. Did you get a look at the woman? Could you recognize her if you saw her again?”

Vanessa flushed red. “I tried peeking, but my manager caught me and basically fired me on the spot,” she muttered.

“Wait, you were working there? Where was this?” Eric said.

Vanessa slouched down further in her seat. “Victoria’s Secret.”

Eric fell out of his chair laughing.

“Shut up! I need gas money, my car gets like 5 miles per gallon!” Vanessa said.

“Yeah, well, how does it feel being a tool of the patriarchy,” Eric said, hiccuping. “Don’t worry, if you got any push-up bras before you got fired you could always go work for Hooters.”

“What’s Hooters?” said Lydia.

“They’re a type of bird,” said Mrs. Pierson.

“Why would Nessa work for birds?”

“So she can learn to fly,” she said.

“I want to learn to fly! Can I work for Hooters?”

“Maybe when you’re older, sweetheart.”

“Well, I doubt that they’re dumping their waste in the water, but there are a few other ways that they could be going about it,” Dr. Pierson said, frowning. “I’ll see what I can do— I’m not actually involved in LEED certification at all, but there are some people I can talk to.”

“Are you planning to publish your work somewhere? This’ll be a big story if you can pull it off,” Mrs. Pierson said.

“Yeah, I was planning to publish it in my newspaper,” Vanessa said.

“Can I see your newspaper, Nessa?” Lydia asked.

“Um,” Vanessa said.

“Mama saw your paper at the grocery store the last time we went, and she laughed and said we could use it to pick up after Barkley, but she wouldn’t let me see it,” Lydia pouted. “But I’m a really good reader, I am!”

“Uh,” Vanessa said.

“Who’s Barkley?” Frank said.

“Barkley’s our dog, she’s a golden retriever,” Lydia said. “Nessa, why does Mama want to use your paper to pick up after Barkley?”

“Because it’s called _The Shit Talker_ , and so it’s already full of shi—,” Eric informed her.

“Eric!” Vanessa hissed.

Lydia looked puzzled.

“The what talker?”

" _The Shiitalker_ ,” Mrs. Pierson said. “It’s like the dog whisperer, remember that show we watched on Sunday?” Lydia nodded. "Well, Vanessa calls her papers  _The Shiitalker_ because she's really good at talking to shiitake mushrooms."

Lydia looked at her round-eyed. “Can you teach me to talk to mushrooms?”

“She sure can,” said Frank. “But talking to a mushroom is pretty boring, even if it tries to tell you that it’s a fun guy.”

Vanessa covered her face in despair. “Just kill me now, please.”

“But what do mushrooms have to do with Barkley?” Lydia said.

“It’s because Barkley’s named after a mushroom,” Dr. Pierson said. “ _Barkerus fungificus._ ”

Lydia’s eyes lit up. “Oh, do you think I can find it in my plant book?”

“We can try, but it’s a pretty rare mushroom,” Dr. Pierson said, but Lydia was already out of her chair.

“So basically your philosophy of parenting is to fill your daughter’s head with lies,” Eric said across the table.

“Until she can tell the difference on her own,” Dr. Pierson agreed. “Not unlike the teaching philosophy at most high schools, I find.”

“Okay, I think that’s enough,” Vanessa said, standing up. “Dr. Pierson, Mrs. Pierson, thanks for letting us stay for dinner, but we should probably get going.”

Dr. Pierson also stood. “Well, thanks for dropping by,” she said, walking them to the door. “I’ll see what I can dig up, if I find anything I’ll let you know.”

On the way to the car:

“So what dialect of Shiitalking do you speak? I tried to sign up for that elective, but there wasn’t mush room,” Frank said sadly.

Vanessa reached over and smacked him upside the head. “Ow!”

* * *

English class had just ended when Vanessa got a text, her phone buzzing.

“You’re lucky that didn’t go off 5 minutes ago, Reeves would’ve flipped,” Eric said.

Vanessa rolled her eyes as she dug her phone out. “It’s from Dr. Pierson,” she said. “ _You’re right, there is something fishy going on with our friends in the pigment business,_ ” she read. “ _I’ve gotten the EPA involved, so just sit tight and don’t worry, they’ll take care of everything from here on out._ ” She snorted. “Yeah, well—”

“Fuck—” said Frank.

“That—” said Eric.

“Shit,” the three of them ended in unison, then looked at each other in surprise.

“I really hope this doesn’t mean that I’m starting to think like you guys,” Vanessa said suspiciously. “Because then I would have to kill myself.”

Frank leaned back in his chair. “I've got a horny pet camel to sell you if you’re interested.”

“Well, do you think about your pussy all the time?” Eric asked.

“What?! No!”

“Then don’t worry, you definitely don't think like Frank yet— aaugh!” he said, tumbling over as Frank tackled him.

Vanessa rolled her eyes as she stood up. “Come on, losers, I’ve got an idea,” she said. “We need to find some old magazines and newspapers, we 've got a note to write.”

An hour or so later, Vanessa dusted off her hands and sat back. “What do you guys think?”      

 

 

“I think he’s going to go berserk,” Eric said. “I think he’s going to have a heart attack when he gets to the ‘gots,’ a stroke when he hits the ’yore,’ and then uncontrollable vomiting when he gets to ‘more then.’”

Vanessa smiled, all her teeth showing. “Perfect.”

The next evening, Mr. Dungworth stepped onto the pier, appearing impeccably coiffed and dressed and also deeply irritated.

Some time passed. He looked at his watch. He started tapping his feet.

At exactly five minutes past ten, he made a disgruntled noise and turned on his heel to leave.

“Going so soon?” Vanessa stepped out of the shadows. “And here I thought we had so much to discuss, Mr. Dungworth.”

Mr. Dungworth inhaled sharply. “Ms. Parkhurst,” he said tightly. “What a delight so see you again, although I’m afraid to inform you that your literacy appears to have deteriorated deplorably during the interim.”

Vanessa shrugged. “Hey, at least I’m not a common criminal,” she said. “I feel absolutely nauseous just looking at you, you fucking scumbag.”

Mr. Dungworth stiffened. “Ms. Parkhurst,” he said coldly. “What you are _trying_ to say that you are nauseated, i.e., that you are filled with revulsion, that you feel sick, overcome by nausea. I do not think that you are trying to make the point that you inspire the sensation in others, although I would wholeheartedly agree that you are, in fact, a perfectly nauseous little girl.”

Vanessa’s eyes narrowed. “You wanted proof that you’re dumping toxic waste, asshole? I’ve got the proof right here,” she said, brandishing a sheaf of papers. “These lab reports are comprised of the analysis of all the samples of lake water I sent to a independent lab weeks ago, and guess what they show— elevated levels of all sorts of toxic chemicals, way above the thresholds set by the EPA.”

“There is no ‘of’ after ‘comprise,’” Mr. Dungworth said, pinching the bridge of his nose. “‘These lab reports _comprise_ the analys _es_ of all the samples of lake water, you imbecilic fool— now let me see that,” he said, snatching the papers out of her hands. He squinted, then after a few moments his eyebrows shot up. “You—” he sputtered. “These lab reports are falsified! A dissolved carbon dioxide level of 1500? A potassium sulfate level of _260_?!? These numbers would only work out if we had a lake _comprising_ club soda, you— you fraud! You ought to be ashamed of yourself!”

Vanessa crossed her arms. “I ought to be ashamed of myself? Think of the damage you’re doing to the aquatic ecosystem, to our entire community’s quality of life by dumping all this toxic waste into the lake! Think of the girls and boys who swim here, completely unaware of the poisons lurking around them! Think of how sweet and innocent these children are—”

“COOOOOOW-A-FUCKING-BUNGAAA!!!”

“You fucking asshole, I didn’t get to three!” Two flesh-colored streaks sped past Vanessa and Mr. Dungworth and cannonballed into the lake, the splash sending a heavy wave of spray over the pier.

“Okay,” said Vanessa. “Maybe not those two.”

Mr. Dungworth was visibly shaking, although whether from revulsion or rage was difficult to say. With short, jerky movements, he took off his jacket, holding it as far away from him between his thumb and index finger.

Eric and Frank climbed out of the lake, twigs and weeds stuck in the hair.

“Man, that was awesome,” Frank said.

“Yeah, except now I’m fucking soaked,” Eric said. He grabbed the jacket out of Mr. Dungworth’s hold and used it to dry himself off, making sure to rub vigorously around his crotch. “Thanks, bro.”

Mr. Dungworth sent a venomous look at him, then turned back. “Ms. Parkhurst, however much I may have enjoyed our little rendezvous, I will re-iterate that you have _no proof_ of your accusations. Those reports don’t prove a single thing.”

Vanessa smirked. “Maybe those reports don’t fool you, but I’d bet they look plenty convincing to everybody else,” she said. “More than enough for people to start getting concerned and raising a stink, demanding that the EPA get involved. And then how well do you think your cover’s going to hold up?" She pointed a finger at him. "I _know_ you’re paying off somebody in the Department of Environmental Health, I heard his wife blabbing the whole story to her friend over the phone. It’s only a matter of time before we figure out what kind of dirty work this guy’s doing for you. It’ll be all over all the medias, everybody going over Dungworth and Co. with a fucking fine tooth comb.”

“All over the _MEDIA_!” Mr. Dungworth shouted. “Media is the plural form of medium, there is no such word as medias!”

“Dude, it’s my fucking turn to dry off, give me that,” Frank said, grabbing at Mr. Dungworth’s jacket.

“Back off, I’ll let you have it when I’m fucking done with it, asshole,” Eric said, shoving back.

Frank stumbled backwards into Mr. Dungworth, neatly and inevitably bumping him off the pier.

“Oops,” Frank said flatly as Mr. Dungworth surfaced, gasping like a landed fish.

“So how does it feel to soak in your poison, Mr. Dungworth?” Vanessa said, crouching down as Mr. Dungworth swam back.

He glared at her, teeth chattering. “I should have wrung your scrawny little neck when I had the chance,” he said, hauling himself onto the pier.

Vanessa shrugged unrepentantly. “Could of would of should of.”

Mr. Dungworth lunged at her. “COULD _HAVE_ , WOULD _HAVE_ , SHOULD _HAVE_ ,” he bellowed. “WE COULD HAVE DUMPED OUR TOXIC WASTE IN THE FUCKING LAKE, IT WOULD HAVE SAVED US FUCKING BRIBING BILL FUCKING REED TO HAUL IT OVER TO THE OIL REFINERY AND INCINERATE IT, I SHOULD HAVE FUCKING KNOWN HIS FUCKING WIFE WOULD FUCKING RUN HER FUCKING MOUTH.”

“All right, get your hands up and hold them up where I can see them,” called another voice, and a moment later a fully uniformed police officer stepped onto the pier.

Mr. Dungworth dropped his hands, still snarling.

“Hi, Dad,” Eric said.

Officer Fowler rolled his eyes as he put away his badge and handcuffed Mr. Dungworth. “Hello, son. Vanessa, are you all right?”

“Yeah, I’m fine,” she said, digging around in her jacket. “Ha!” She held her pocket recorder up triumphantly. “Not even damp, it looks like it caught everything.”

“Great,” he said grimly. “Now for god’s sake, would you boys please put some goddamn underwear on? You’re lucky I’m not arresting you both for public indecency,” he said, putting Mr. Dungworth in the back of his cruiser.

"PUT _ON_ THE GODDAMN UNDERWEAR, DON'T PUT GODDAMN UNDERWEAR _ON_ , ONE DOES NOT END SENTENCES WITH PREPOS—"

Officer Fowler shut the door on Mr. Dungworth and drove off.

“All right, open the car so we can fucking go home,” Frank said, shivering.

Vanessa was patting herself down with increasing urgency, then froze suddenly. “Oh,” she said. “Shit.”

Eric’s voice carried out over the lake, startling a flock of sleeping geese into taking flight.

“ _You realize all our clothes are in there, don’t you!?_ ”

* * *

Mrs. Reeves looked up as Vanessa, Eric, and Frank came in the door.

“All hail the conquering heroes,” she said.

“Thanks, Mrs. Reeves,” Vanessa said. She tossed a newspaper onto the desk. “It’s the latest edition, I’m turning it in to count as our senior project.”

Mrs. Reeves raised an eyebrow. “‘Our project,’ hm? Did Eric and Frank pull their weight on this?”

“Um…” Vanessa rubbed the back of her neck. Mrs. Reeves took another look at her students and found herself raising the other eyebrow: Frank and Eric were covered head to toe in scratches and welts, both looking deeply disgruntled. Vanessa, on the other hand, looked as fresh as a daisy, though her expression was oddly shamefaced. “Yeah, no, they definitely did their fair share.”

“Well, then I’m happy to accept it on behalf of you all,” Mrs. Reeves said, picking the paper up and unfolding it. The bell rang, signaling the end of passing period. “All right, scram, I’m not writing passes for any of you,” she said.

The door swung shut behind them, their voices still clearly audible from the hall.

“You guys, I _said_ was sorry a billion times!”

“Yeah, well, see how far that gets you when you’ve got poison ivy in your crotch.”

“You know what, I’ll let it go if you let me tell you a joke. What did the fungus say when it got locked out of its car?”

Vanessa groaned. “What?”

“Eee! No key!” A moment of silence. “Get it? Enoki is a type of mushroo— ow!” There was some muffled thumping from the hallway.

Mrs. Reeves shook her head, scanning the paper. Of course the headline and cover story was about the Dungworth and Co. scandal, and Vanessa really did have a flair for writing once she cut down on the obscenities, but… Mrs. Reeves frowned.

“ _A comparative analysis of the Northern and Southern dialects of Shiital—_ wait, what?”


End file.
